“What about your own swoops and pounces, before you wax ironical about these unfortunate yokels? It doesn’t seem to me that you’ve got very much farther than they’ve done, after all. What about it, Clinton?”
Sir Clinton laughed teasingly.
“The Hackleton case is dragging along still,” he said, with the obvious intention of changing the subject. “Shandon’s junior isn’t making much out of it, so far as I can see. Old man Hackleton has every reason to be content with the removal of Neville Shandon. He’s having it all his own way in the case now—far too clever for the poor barrister. He’ll get off scot-free, or I’m much mistaken.”
Wendover refused to be led away on this fresh trail.
“Seriously,” he said, “you don’t seem to be doing much on this Whistlefield case. You’ve just been loafing about these last few days.”
Sir Clinton did not defend himself. In fact, he went out of his way to underline Wendover’s complaint.
“And tonight I’m actually dragging you off to play bridge at Whistlefield, eh? Well, the invitation didn’t originate with me. It came from Miss Hawkhurst. I admit that I angled for it in a somewhat unprincipled way—gave her to understand that the company of a sour old bachelor was getting on my nerves here, that I’d welcome a little bright feminine society, and that the society of herself and Miss Forrest had just the very kind of brightness that the case needed.”
“She must have felt flattered!” Wendover commented ironically.
“Oh, of course it was put in my most delicate vein.”
Then Sir Clinton became suddenly serious.
“I’m not very happy in mind about things, Squire; and I want to get a footing in that house apart from purely professional visits. Hence the angling. Otherwise, the thing would be in the worst of taste, I quite admit.”
Wendover pricked up his ears.
“Are you expecting more trouble even now? Nothing’s happened. …”
“Since the last time? No, it’s rather a curious point which you may have noticed, Squire. Nothing ever does happen between the last time and the next time. That I should say was an almost invariable rule in life.”
“You evidently lost the chance of a good job when the Sibyls went out of business,” said Wendover in a disappointed tone. “You could have written up their books for them in the very best style. You’re a past master in the art of seeming to say something important and really saying nothing whatever.”
“It often comes in useful,” said Sir Clinton. “But why say anything at all? It seems just about the time when we ought to be starting for Whistlefield. Suppose we take the hint.”
He refused to discuss the Whistlefield case during the drive across, or even to give Wendover an inkling of why he wished to get a footing in the house at all. The Squire was not quite satisfied. To him, it appeared rather like a breach of hospitality for them to go there with anything in their minds beyond the game for which they had been invited. He disliked the idea of Sir Clinton Driffield introducing his alter ego the Chief Constable into a neighbour’s house by this indirect method.
When they arrived they found only four of the Whistlefield party awaiting them. Arthur Hawkhurst was busy with the loudspeaker, from which he was evoking weird oscillation-notes in the course of his endeavours to pick up different stations. Ernest Shandon was sitting drowsily in a corner of the room; and Wendover noticed with distaste that he had a spirit decanter and syphon on a table beside him. As the Chief Constable and Wendover were announced, Sylvia came forward.
“So glad you’ve come, Sir Clinton. We’re looking forward to some decent bridge. …”
A weird howl from the loudspeaker drowned the remainder of her words. Ernest lifted himself from his chair with an effort and approached them.
“Are you much of a bridge-player?” he inquired apathetically. “I never cared enough for the game to do much good. It’s such a lot of trouble, you know. All this business of struggling for the declaration, and all that. And if one gets keen on it one’s apt to get very keen; and perhaps then one spends a lot of time over it. And one might spend that time in other ways, perhaps better, don’t you think? But perhaps you like it? Some people do.”
“Uncle was never a rap of good at it,” Sylvia explained with a faint suspicion of a smile. “So naturally he doesn’t like it. Same as the non-dancing man who can’t dance, you know.”
“Now Stenness is a good player,” Ernest went on. “And I can’t think why he finds it amusing. He’s got all the cards docketed in his head, you know, just like a lot of papers in pigeonholes. That seems to me too much like work—making a toil of pleasure and all that sort of thing. But tonight he won’t be playing. He’s busy in the study with some papers I asked him to look over. And Torrance is practising shots in the billiard room, so he won’t be playing, either. Arthur! Are you going to play?”
Arthur looked up crossly from his task.
“No!” he snapped. “Can’t you see this affair’s gone out of gear and I’m trying to put it right?”
Another shriek from the instrument emphasised his words.
Sylvia put her hands over her ears.
“Will you be long over it, Arthur?” she demanded. “These howls are terrible.”
“Can’t you see I’m doing the best I can?” her brother retorted snappishly. “There’s nothing so aggravating as to have someone standing over one the whole time asking: ‘Will it be all right soon?’ and ‘When do you think you’ll
